


Shelter

by bakanekofan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Based on a Tumblr Post, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, First Kiss, First Love, Johnlock Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1350094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakanekofan/pseuds/bakanekofan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little one-shot, a canon-divergence post Reichenbach Fall in which John suffers from night terrors only to find the subject of those night terrors standing right beside him. Fluff happens.</p><p>Please criticize me, as this is my first Sherlock fanfiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shelter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meowbowwow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowbowwow/gifts).



> I wrote this mostly because I saw on Meowbowwow's Tumblr a few posts about adorable fanfictions post-Reichenbach wherein John has nightmares and Sherlock makes it better and apologizes, so... Yeah. Thought I might join in.
> 
> Anyway, I might add, also, that I don't own Sherlock or BBC or anything, really. I just wrote this. There's a reason it's called "FAN fiction," folks.

_It was a scene not unfamiliar, but one that Doctor John Watson would prefer to forget. His best friend and flatmate standing on the edge of the rooftop of St. Bart’s, his long overcoat whipping in the breeze as he stared down at John, phone in his hand. “This is my note,” The detective began, but John knew before he said anything more what Sherlock was going to do, that far too familiar feeling of Deja Vu washing over him as he shook his head._

_“No… Please, Sherlock, don’t-” The doctor begged, already fighting the tears that were forming, “You don’t have to do this, we can still get him if you’d just…”_

_“Enough now. This is goodbye, John.” The world seemed to slow then, as Sherlock discarded his phone and tilted forward ever-so-slightly, and in spite of John’s screaming his name, desperate for him to hold on, gravity got the better of the consulting detective who seemed to fall for ages, but no matter how fast he ran, John couldn’t quite manage to get to him in time to catch him- not that it would have done much good._

_It was just the two of them, then, John kneeling beside Sherlock in a pool of blood, and John lifted the detective’s smashed head into his lap, not caring that the blood would stain his clothes, not even bothering to check for a pulse, because he knew with a sinking certainty that Sherlock really was dead. “Why?” He asked, his voice barely a whimper in comparison to his usual tone, “You didn’t have to do this… Please, Sherlock, just stop it. Stop being dead and come home, please…”_

_It was quite a shock, then, when the distorted face of Sherlock Holmes suddenly seemed to twitch to life, his brilliant eyes opening as he whispered, “It’s just a magic trick.” They softened, then, and his hand rose up to lightly caress John’s cheek, “But it’s over now. Wake up, John.”_

Gasping for breath, as he’d just seen his dead best friend’s brain matter splattered all over the pavement and then heard him speak, John sat up quite suddenly, only to find himself back in the flat they once shared, 221B Baker Street. It had been over three years since that day, and somehow he could still see it all so clearly. Of course, it had not been exactly as it had in the nightmare, but then, it never was. That nightmare he’d suffered every night since was ever-changing, in spite of several constants- for example, John was never able to stop him. Taking comfort in the fact that he knew he was alone, he allowed his usual walls to crumble as he drew his knees into his chest and sobbed. Would they ever go away? Would it ever get any easier? Would he ever stop hearing that voice telling him goodbye for the final time? “I’m sorry.” For a moment, all was silent. The voice that spoke those words was one John would always recognize, but he knew it was impossible. Even so, it sent his heart racing anew and his crying stopped immediately. “Not a day went by that I didn’t think of you. I understand now why people say that distance makes us wise.”

“I’ve done it now, haven’t I? I’m bloody hallucinating. Auditory hallucinations, that’s what this is.” John tried to rationalize, not daring to turn in the direction of the voice, not wanting to see that there was nothing there, but just as his vision began to cloud over, a hand came to rest against the opposite cheek and gently encouraged him to turn.

There, kneeling just beside his bed, was Sherlock, just as John remembered him, very much alive. “You are a doctor, John, you cannot touch hallucinations, cannot feel them.” He reminded, his expression virtually unreadable, as ever, but at least he wasn’t teasing. Even Sherlock knew when his humor went too far.

Still, John laughed humorlessly, tears falling freely now, as he stated plainly, “You can’t. You can’t be here, you can’t be alive, I saw you, I felt your pulse, I-”

“I know.” Sherlock affirmed, “And I’m sorry. You must know, John, that I never wanted to have to do that, and it was entirely my fault, and I’m so, so sorry. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t been so foolish, but now I wonder if it might have been foolish to deny it in the first place.”

Confused by the ramblings of his dead-not-dead flatmate that John was still convinced was a figment of his imagination, the doctor inhaled sharply and asked, “What are you on about?”

“Snipers,” Sherlock spat, “You remember when we first met Moriarty at the pool? He had snipers on us the entire time, and this was no different. If I didn’t jump, he would have killed you, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, so I jumped. I had to make you believe that I really was dead so you wouldn’t go letting on that I wasn’t until I had completely dismantled Moriarty’s organization, or they would have killed you, do you understand that? And all this because I lied. I lied to you, I lied to everyone. I’m not a sociopath, I’m just smart enough not to put myself in situations where I’m likely to face rejection and pain because quite frankly, I’m terrible at it. But Moriarty caught on to that little secret, and so, because I cared, he was able to cause all of this, so forgive me, John. I never wanted to put you through all that, and I tried to hint to you that it was an act, but I should have known you wouldn’t have caught on, especially in the heat of the moment like that. I have so many unsent messages, so many times I nearly called, so many things that distance makes us see.”

Although he listened and understood most of what Sherlock was saying about the snipers and Moriarty, there was still the obvious question that John had to ask, “What things?”

“You.” The consulting detective averted his gaze for a moment, as if steeling himself, before meeting John’s eyes once more, “Funny, really. I’ve been telling myself for over two years now that I wouldn’t fear this moment, that I would embrace the opportunity, and yet here I am, still every bit the little boy my brother makes me to be, so afraid of loss and rejection… But you’ve let your walls down, it’s only fair I say what I mean to, as well. I know that neither of us are ones to discuss personal thoughts and feelings, but I believe a return from the dead is cause for such an occasion, so here we are. In all my life, I’ve had two true friends. Friends who may not have understood me, necessarily, but they neither revered me nor hated me for being myself. The other was a dog named Redbeard.” He inhaled deeply, retracting his hand as he continued, “I never expected nor intended to allow myself to become attached to anyone after he passed. Keeping people at arm’s length kept me safe, caring is not an advantage, as I was always taught. It never seemed to matter, anyway, as everyone seemed perfectly happy to keep their distance from me- after all, why would they want anything to do with me? A self-diagnosed sociopath, all around ‘freak’ who seems entirely heartless, a machine, even, and of course dangerous. Always getting myself into trouble just to alleviate boredom and solve a puzzle… But then you come along, and rather than get annoyed with my deductions, you find them fascinating. You forgive and tolerate my mannerisms and are not afraid to correct me when I’ve gone too far, and as much as I lay into you, you push back rather than silently accepting it like a word from God, you killed a man for me on one of the first nights we met, and rather than running away when I warn you of danger, you run to me- overall, you baffle me, and I’m quite certain that there’s something wrong with you mentally that causes you to be addicted to the battlefield, but at the same time, I don’t care because it draws you to me. Simply put; while I was away, I realized that there had always been a void in my life that I had filled with the company of oddments- that skull, for example, Redbeard… I was always lonely, but I always feared rejection, but with you, I’ve never needed to fear anything of the sort because you seem to be capable of handling absolutely anything I can throw at you, so I’ll do just that. For all my claims- and indeed, the claims of others- that I am entirely incapable of such sentiment, I…” Sherlock shook his head in frustration, “No, no. No good, I still can’t say it. Different tactic.”

Before John could manage to say anything edgewise, Sherlock was crawling into bed with him- no, not with him, on top of him. “Sherlock? What are you doing?” He asked a bit nervously, backing down as the detective’s face neared his until his head hit the pillow.

“I know it sounds cliche, but something I should really have done a long time ago.” Sherlock replied honestly before hesitantly capturing John’s lips with his own. They stayed that way for quite some time, Sherlock’s lips stiff against John’s, waiting for a response one way or another- either John would push him off and start yelling, or he would return the affection, but the hesitation that the detective mistook as indecision was really more shock than anything. Who could blame John, really, for needing a moment to gather his thoughts? His not-dead best friend and flatmate just came back from God-knows-where, believed to be dead, and, after making a long confession that he couldn’t even finish, was kissing him. But it was more than just a kiss, he knew that- it was a question, not unlike the one Sherlock had proposed the first night they worked together. Did he want this? Of course, the answer was much the same- ‘Oh God, yes.’

Slowly coming to his senses, John’s arms wound around the detective’s waist and drew him closer as he returned the kiss- not heatedly or in a fit of passion, but slowly, with the silent promise of many more to come, and he could feel Sherlock relaxing against him, trying awkwardly to match John’s movements, making it quite clear, if it hadn’t been before, that this was one area he lacked experience in. Laughing, giggling, really, the detective pulled away, and, suddenly concerned that it might have been another one of Sherlock’s sick pranks, John asked impatiently, “What’s so funny?”

Sherlock shook his head, sitting up so he was more or less straddling John’s waist. “No, no, nothing like that. I’m being sincere, it’s just that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing, and I realize that I’m being selfish and probably putting you in even greater danger-”

“You said could be dangerous,” John cut in, pulling Sherlock closer, “And here I am. It doesn’t matter if you’re inexperienced or you don’t know what to do, it’s fine, remember? It’s all fine, Sherlock.”

Serious again, the detective murmured, “You understand that this won’t change me, don’t you? Whatever this is, it won’t change the fact that I’m a complete, insensitive dickhead who loves nothing more than a good murder.”

“It’s all fine,” John repeated firmly, pushing up into a sitting position as well, “I don’t want you to change. Lay off the drugs and smokes, maybe, but not really change. All I wanted was to have you back, and now you’re here, and you’re… You say you don’t know what to do, what the bloody hell am I supposed to do?” He allowed his head to fall forward, then, his forehead coming to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, and the detective, who was generally so awkward about hugs, embraced his doctor and rubbed his back soothingly.

“I don’t want you to change, either. I don’t expect anything more or less of you, I just think it’s beyond time that we stopped all of this nonsense, skirting around each other for fear of rejection.” John lifted his head slightly as Sherlock said this, but before he could ask the question on his mind, the answer rolled off of the detective’s lips, “Yes, I have known- no, not known, I was uncertain because I found it difficult to believe that anyone could possibly care for me so much, but you have proven yourself time and again, I did see the signs, I was not completely blind to them, I was just hesitant.”

Raising a brow slightly, John challenged, “You really noticed? When I was so much less obvious than Molly, and you didn’t notice her coming on to you from the start?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this, “Molly is different, she’s not you John. She’s the sort that reveres me, like I was saying. There are rare occasions where she asserts herself, but for the most part, she’s putty in my hand, you actually think before doing as you're told and challenge the reasoning behind it, unless, of course, it is an emergency situation. I don’t need more people to tell me how brilliant I am or to shove their noses into everything I do, I need someone who makes me feel… human. There’s only one person that I know of that can manage that, and it certainly isn’t Molly Hooper, or Irene Adler, for that matter.”

John seemed a bit perplexed at this, “Irene Adler? The Woman? That- Sherlock, she’s-”

“I know, Mycroft thinks she’s dead and that’s probably what he told you, but even my brother is wrong on rare occasions. I was there, at her beheading. I saved her life and sent her off on her own, I won’t go into details of how I did it, but I did, and that’s all you need to know. She’s alive, but she’s not here, and I don’t need her here, I don’t need anyone else, I’m fine on my own, but… I don’t want to imagine another day without my doctor at my side.” When John smiled sadly at these words, Sherlock leaned in to kiss him lightly, bringing both hands up to cup the doctor’s cheeks as he wiped away what was left of the tears. “Even if this love affair must end, please, never leave me, John Watson. I don’t much care for my life without you, and I swear that I will never leave you again, either.” At this, the doctor’s grin broadened, confusing Sherlock a bit. “What? What are you smiling about? I’m being sincere, you know.”

Laughing now, John said, “I know, I know, but you said it. You said the ‘L’ word you were so afraid of.” Sherlock seemed rather surprised at himself, and perhaps even a bit embarrassed, but John quickly added, “I’m not making fun of you, you know. I love you too, Sherlock.”


End file.
